Why I Don’t Want To Be Anything — And The Profound Story In What Just Is

The only aspiration I now have is to not aspire to be anything. I hope I never fail.

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I ran across a quote I’ve never seen while reading an article. It sparked profound introspection I hadn’t felt in ages. The idea was along the lines of this — paraphrased, of course.

“The worst things in history were all done by people who wanted to be something.”

(I can’t find the original quote.)

Despite referring to humanity as a whole, I think the quote reflects my experiences on a personal level too. The worst things I’ve done (so far) were indeed out of a desire to be something. Both in terms of morality and in quality.

I’ve already beaten topics of my experiences with word associations, gatekeeping reality, and the pressure/scare tactics to “be something” to death, so I won’t recount everything in detail. But I was never satisfied with my trajectory.

I threw away what worked for me in favor of following generic, yet stringent rules. Rejecting one’s own experiences to adhere to an arbitrary requirement. Forgoing physiological limits and mind fatigue, to the point of doing potential permanent damage.

I couldn’t accept I still hadn’t become anything, despite the time invested.

Because if I wasn’t that, I was nothing.

But in many cases, doing nothing is more productive than this.

There was no time to waste when life was so fleeting. Especially when one was behind in the competition. I’ve spent years in some endeavors. Then I reached my early twenties — still far from where I “should’ve been.”

But this fear didn’t instill progress.

It caused stagnation, if not *re*-gression.

The desperation to become has also morphed my values at times. Some of my previous writings (which are now non-existent) are a prime example of that.

The allure of kudos and affirmation filled my mind. But to be something, you needed to, quote — put yourself out there. Everyone who had become something on this platform wrote at least triweekly, apparently. They wrote like this, they wrote like that. I wasn’t true to myself.

Instead, I tried my best to follow. Forgoing genuineness and ignoring my discomfort.

To be something was not just a desire in my past — it was a demand.

To not be something meant you were worthless and contributed nothing to society. Or worse, dare you be complacent in its issues. That was no different than villainy itself. That’s what I’ve heard, at least.

I constantly lived in fear trying to follow the demands. I forced myself to be angry at what I couldn’t control. To make mountains out of molehills. And have thoughts and opinions on things I didn’t (and perhaps couldn’t) understand.

Because I had to be something, and if I wasn’t, I was nothing.
Nothing short of a demon, that is.

I felt like an utter fool at times. Largely because I was one, in hindsight. Yet I continued to push myself to be someone because my discomfort meant nothing in this grand scheme I bought into.

An eye for an eye made the whole world blind. But if that’s what it took to be on the “right side,” then so be it. Being was the justification to cease my weakness, “stand up” for myself for once, and everything else I was told.

Needless to say, there now been times in my past when I’ve become the villain in another’s story.

I haven’t burned someone’s house down, but I’ve definitely thought and said some asinine stuff for sure. Sometimes it was because I was misguided — other times I genuinely had no idea.

Now, I’ve become unsuccessful in being someone with a clean slate, despite my best efforts. Ironically, that desire to be on the “good side” is what led me down those roads in the first place.

And at the time, I felt like scum with this realization.

I was again infatuated with my failure to be someone — one who never made mistakes. Though with the insane volatility of my perspective in recent times, it’s questionable how flawless my record was in the first place.

I can’t say either way.

I’ve better come to terms with both the past and present. I’m moving forward with the lessons I learned. And in a strange sense, there’s a sigh of relief from not having to uphold this sense of purity any longer.

One that I likely never had in the first place.
I no longer have to be.

To Be Remembered

The idea of “making one’s mark” now seems absurdly egotistical to me. I’ve never stopped in the middle of my day to think — “You know, that Socrates guy was a real genius. What an amazing, influential figure in human history.”

I highly doubt anyone is thought of that often. The possibility is nigh on impossible for me. I don’t even think of serial killers that much.

To force oneself into a level of importance seems like a surefire way to make one’s mark — but not in a preferable way. As aforementioned, my pressure to be something ensured exactly that.

But it was something I never hoped I’d become.

One has to question the merit of “becoming something” anyway. Because I’ve discovered what one “is” is generally derived by the observer. One’s good can be another’s evil. Another scoffs at what someone else applauds.

So what exactly does it mean to be “something?”

I don’t see the incentive either. The motives behind the label are questionable. Am I only made into something when I become what I’m not? When I’m put on a pedestal or demonized, but either way, alienated from the rest of humanity?

Would I be made into something just to have my complexities minimalized, yet scrutinized? Yet only when one is to be made an example of, is the narrative of struggle, grit, and hard work weaved.

Will I only be made into something just to tout one’s triumphs as an over-simplified checklist for success? To ignore the intricacies of the journey, and discourage others whose position I’d once be in over a misrepresentation?

I’m not sure I trust the intent. When one is made into something, what does that serve to do?

I’m getting way ahead of myself. The odds of reaching any level of renown are slim. But I’ve always felt this catch-22 where if I “aspire for greatness” (whatever the toss that means), I’m egomaniacal and don’t know my place.

But I’m “cowardly” and “mediocre” if I don’t.

I’m never enough. When I was in middle school, I thought of my elementary school self as a fool. I loathed thinking I’d known something then once I progressed to high school.

College me hated high school me. How he thought his accomplishments meant anything — his foolish ideas. And here I am now. The knowledge from my degree has lost its importance. What I once looked up to is now the ground level. And soon, it’ll sink even further.

The goalposts just keep shifting, fostering an urge to regain lost ground. Even though my ideas and work are multitudes more developed than those I had a decade ago.

They’ve both become the same — outdated and below the bar. Because it’s never enough.

My capabilities increase but the desperation remains the same. And eventually, the two combined put me in a position to stumble. The mess spills over, leaving my future self to clean up the consequences of those decisions.

If only I hadn’t tried to be.

The Story In What Is

As I’ve lived longer and gained a wider range of experiences, I’ve noticed the poetry and beauty in some things that just… happen. Nothing that results from any forced influence, but through what just is.

I’ve seen the way events align and pieces fall in place. Recontextualized the past witnessing how they’ve fit into the overarching narrative. Oftentimes, it tells a story I never could’ve made up on my own. With rising action, a climax, resolution, and all that.

And a reminder to all, this comes from a multi-year-long shut-in with minimal social interaction in a decade. One who’s largely spent his life in his room and on a computer.

To be fair, there’s some selection bias going on. What I consider meaningless may mean “something” to another, and vice versa. Maybe I fixate only on aspects that corroborate this “shut-in” label.

But it’s also fair to think I’ve lived and done nothing, based on the things I’ve said. At least compared to the perfect life I’m supposed to live. The one I’m never doing enough for.

Yet despite that nothingness, I’ve got many lessons and stories to reflect on.
And plenty more to tell.

Even if I’m to believe this fallacy that it’s possible to do zero worthwhile things in one’s life, I think it’s significant what a person can be, simply by living another day in this world.

The pandemic is an obvious example. That’s a testament to resilience and adaptability in harrowing times. The entire world went through it, so it might not be a unique experience. But that doesn’t dilute the importance of its individual effects.

Or take, for instance, the technological revolution we’re in. Really thinking about it, this time is the equivalent of the Renaissance or other ages in history. But it’s everyday life to me.

The significance of these experiences was something I’d never considered.

I perceived history’s connotation as a solemn one. The term conjures imagery of pristine temples and architecture housing the relics of eras long past. The important lessons in human history — the triumphs and atrocities alike.

In comparison to that, my experiences were not history-worthy. I had no trials and tribulations. There were only smartphones, video games, and social media.

But now time has passed. And the insights have revealed themselves.

It’s been over a decade since I first used an electronic tablet. I’ve discovered how these technologies were (and still are) used to hack our minds and foster misinformation, among other things.

Like the pandemic, this is not a unique experience. But the world has bore witness to the problems technology solved, the many it created, and the solutions that are being devised to counter them.

It still baffles me that Facebook and Angry Birds are now history in the same ranks as a Da Vinci painting. They seem insignificant, if not foolish compared to an event like the Hundred-Year War.

But I, along with others, am now part of the first generation to have grown up (and been effed up) under this technological influence. And nearly everyone alive today is a witness, if not the experimentees, to what good and harm it can do.

Just by the act of living, I’ve become part of history, along with countless others who’ve done the same.

It’s still surreal, if not bizarre when I see references to AI or parodies of Twitter in shows or games. Or seeing actual governments use computer vision to surveil their citizens — a real-life dystopian movie.

This normality is remarkably wild in hindsight. Despite that, my name in particular will not appear in most books. My name may be forgotten, along with billions of others.

And that’s fine with me, if not preferable.

Trailblazing

I’ve heard “people nowadays” are obsessed with recording everything instead of focusing on the moment (i.e. me with 15+ years' worth of photos/video). That it’s okay to forget, and it doesn’t undermine the significance of the events.

Yet apparently, one’s name must “make the history books” to have merit in their experience. They must be immortalized forever in the temple of time.

I no longer believe any experiences are intrinsically “worth nothing.” Many activities deemed as time-wasters have shown their utility later down the line.

After months of mind block, I’m forcing myself to watch shows when I’ve run out of gas. This has previously sparked creative ideas while providing relaxation to boot. It’s helped me progress in the past. It hasn’t done much now, but it’s better than what I did before.

When times got tough, I was never motivated to do anything — even to relax. I wasn’t bothered to start a game or show. But despite that, I filled time doomscrolling and feeling awful because it was easy, accessible, and impulsively addictive.

I wasn’t any closer to getting unstuck. I wasn’t doing or being more.

But the time was wasted anyway, on something arguably worse.

I was often stuck in inclement conditions like this. However, I believe viewing these events (or lack thereof) as meaningless greatly undermines an individual’s ability to traverse their adverse problems when they desire.

I can’t speak for everyone. But without the time spent “valuelessly wrong,” there’s no frame of reference. There’s no time to let ideas cultivate and grow, and to discover the path forward.

I’ve spent years of my life like that. From suboptimality to immorality, and being behind in the race. I often wish they never happened. But every one of those periods was necessary to garner a will to find solutions.

I’m not an idiot. Not a complete one, at least.

It’s true that I spent years stuck in detrimental habits. I wasn’t always at my best. But I came to understand hurt, guilt, and discomfort with my time in these states. Insight which would push me to resolution in due time.

For a notion that pressures oneself to never be content, it sure fosters a lot of complacency. The discomfort was normal. This is how things had to be. At least, if one was ever to do anything with their life.

Yet my longest periods stuck in bad habits were not from inactivity. They were when I tried to be.

Apparently, one must be destined for “greatness.” One can be anything they want. But only by following these set rules, experiencing things exactly how they’re foretold — or perhaps fantasized is the correct term.

Anything else is deemed unworthy — the markings of an errant fool.

When I tried to “be something,” the nuance of the process was omitted. I sought a result hardly knowing the question, let alone the complex processes behind it. The problem was manufactured as perpetual inadequacy, with a faux solution.

An answer without backing was the equivalent of a myth. And that was the basis of my desperation. That which fostered self-doubt, feeling broken, and a necessity to pursue what was ultimately a mirage.

There was no objective pursuit in the first place.

I may have spent years in agony — “wasting” time, “stagnant” in“deleterious” habits. But the lessons derived from those years are infinitely more significant than what claims I hear. They’ll persist with me as a result.

They were necessary steps to learn, and prove with evidence, what was right for me. To believe in one’s journey even if deemed arbitrarily “wrong.” I can decide that for myself and refuse to be told otherwise.

So may it be days, months, or years spent working, sleeping, or slacking. I know my time’s not worthless. I won’t underestimate my ability to find my place, and my path forward — progressing as I have been.

Their significance has just yet to be uncovered in the big picture.

The Plan

I now know what it means to “be something.” I’ve seen what it means to achieve “greatness.” How these concepts are arbitrarily wielded, and the potential nefarious intent behind it. It does nothing for me.

It’s changed my thoughts and actions. Perpetuated fear and inadequacy. They’ve shown how easily they can be molded to fulfill a purpose. One which hardly has my best interests in mind.

Or one which has so, but the worst aspects of them.

I don’t want to be a developer, a writer, or an artist. I don’t want to be a “good person,” nor do I desire to change the world. I was always compelled to be something before. That’s not what I aim for anymore.

That doesn’t mean I have no aspirations. I’ll still figure out the path forward. I’ll do the best I can. But no longer for the ego, nor to prove oneself. Certainly not to be remembered.

I just want to make my stuff, do my thing.

Let the results play out. And then die.

Preferably, the latter part won’t happen in the next half-century. Mid-nineties sounds like a good life. I was born too late to experience the 90s, but I might check out the 2090s if I’m lucky.

Other than that, I rid myself of these desires from this point forward.

I do not want to be anything anymore.
But that doesn’t mean it won’t happen regardless.

My past actions have borne significant results, despite the fact I never tried to invoke them. I still caused an impact of sorts. So I may be surprised by what’s become in the future, despite my unwillingness.

Yet no matter what I do, my name will likely not go down in history. That’s for the best. Humanity will move on with a new set of problems. It’s asinine to expect it to remain in the past to revere any single person — let alone me.

My life will be forgotten eventually, if it’s even remembered in the first place. But that won’t change the significance of what happened — of what once was. The connections that were made, interactions that were had, and the emotions I experienced.

Plus, a significant purpose of history seems more about mistakes that are not to be repeated. The trail of mess left behind from prior attempts to be, and gain control through desperation.

Better to be forgotten than immortalized in infamy.

I’ve tried not to worry about what I can’t control, and I’m still working on it. That’s a lesson I’ve learned — it’s pointless to do so. But I believed what I “be” was fully under my discretion. It was obvious I could control who I was.

That notion turned out as incorrect. As aforementioned, I now see it’s in the eye of the beholder, and therefore out of my jurisdiction. My desperation came from attempts to control the uncontrollable. Hence, it was foolish in hindsight.

I’ll just work on navigating my course — learning and experiencing as I go. No more crippling pressure, and no more living in fear. I believe in the big picture. The beauty in what just is, and what can come of that.

As for what I be, I’ll leave that question for someone else to answer.
But in my experience, it’s never led anywhere good.